


The Only Truth That Sticks

by xstarxchaserx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explosions, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary's a bad guy, Moriarty is Alive, Morstan? More like Moran, Post-Reichenbach, Rated E for later chapters, domestic terrorism, eventual john/sherlock, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xstarxchaserx/pseuds/xstarxchaserx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock Holmes back in London after two years of faking his death, John Watson is swept along in the desperate hunt for James Moriarty- back from the dead- and his right hand man known only as Moran. But what happens when John discovers that Moran has been right in front of him the whole time? </p><p>Excerpt: Perhaps if I had been a bit cleverer or if Sherlock Holmes hadn’t just tossed my world around again or Mary wasn’t so damn beautiful, I would have noticed the glint in her eyes, the way her expression hardened, how her shoulders tensed… Instead, I went inside and let her make me a cup of tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know that this is not everyone's cup of tea. Most of us just want Mary to be a nice, stable influence in John's life despite her history as an assassin. I can appreciate that since my opinions are a little vague on the matter. 
> 
> But this story was just too good for me to pass up. 
> 
> I don't know how long it's going to be, and I'm starting classes up again for the Spring semester, so I can't promise quick updates. I'm in the editing process of the second chapter as I post this first one, so that should be up fairly soon. I'll try to have updates weekly, but they'll probably fluctuate as the time and mood to write strikes me. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr, where I'll probably discuss this fic among many other things. My name is the same on there as it is on here, xstarxchaserx.
> 
> Sit back and enjoy the ride.  
> x Destiny
> 
> *The title comes from a quote by Arthur Miller, author of The Crucible, that goes: "Betrayal is the only truth that sticks."

It had been a while since I had seen one of Mycroft’s black cars. No, that’s not quite right. I had seen plenty of them since Sherlock had died. Idling outside of Tesco when I finished my shopping. Passing slowly by as I was on my way home from the clinic. Parked across the street from 221B in the beginning, carrying on the trend when I moved into the new apartment. It _had_ been a long time since I’d seen the inside of one. Mycroft tried on numerous occasions to have a conversation of some sorts, but with Sherlock gone, I had no need nor desire to speak with his brother. Especially not if you took into consideration the fact that I still held a bit of resentment over the fact that he fed Moriarty the information he used to bring Sherlock to the edge, to give him that proverbial _push._ But this time, when I came home from work and found Mycroft sitting in my flat, something was different about him.

“Hello, Doctor Watson. How was your shift at the clinic?”

“I’m sure you know all the gritty details already.”

“I don’t keep that close of an eye on you.”

“If you really must know, it was a lovely day. Two cases of the stomach flu, a badly infected skinned knee, and a 65 year old man with erectile dysfunction were about the highlights of it. It’s all left me with the rather strong desire to shower as soon as I can, so if you don’t mind…” I gesture at the door for him to leave.

He stands and, for one stupid moment, I think he’s actually going to go. “Sorry, John, but your shower is going to have to wait. I need you to come with me.”

“Piss off.”

He sighs. “I’d rather not make you, John, but one way or the other, you’re coming with me.”

“Why should I? Why should I listen to a damn thing you want to say to me?”

“This is important, John. Please.”

“Fucking hell. You’re saying please? Is the world ending?”

“Let’s just say that it would be in your best interest to come with me.”

“Fine, fine. I had a date tonight. Should I cancel?”

“I don’t know how long this will take.”

“Very well.”

He leads me outside to one of his black cars, and I find myself wondering if it’s always the same one or if he rotates them out. To stave off the small talk that’s expected in tight situations, such as sharing a car, I take my phone out and start to text. 

**Sorry, Mary. Have to cancel. –JW**

Her response takes a few minutes to come in, something that’s rather unusual for her. 

**Oh? What happened? x Mary**

**Stuff came up. I’ll talk to you later. –JW**

**Okay. I love you. x Mary**

Before I can respond, the car stops and Mycroft announces that we’ve arrived at our destination. I tuck my phone into my pocket and look at my surroundings. For all appearances, it’s just another warehouse along the river. The driver gets out and opens the door for us, allowing Mycroft to get out first and me right behind him. Two men stand at the door, both well-armed. I put my hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and he almost flinches from the touch. 

“Tell me what we’re doing here.”

“You’ll see once we’re inside.”

“I would prefer to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“I need you to trust me on this one, John, as much as that pains you. I don’t see any harm from this, and if you would just follow me, we can get down to business.”

I don’t see any sign of dishonesty on his face (not that I’m sure I’d be able to if he was lying to me), and nod. We walk past the guards and, about a dozen paces in, he stops walking.

“What are you-?”

“Just a little further. Go on.”

“I don’t like this game.”

“It’s not a game. Please, John, just go on. And… I’m sorry.”

It’s the apology that pushes my emotions from anger and anxiety to curiosity. The familiar rush of adrenaline, after so long of a time without it, almost makes me dizzy. After another 20 paces or so, I hear a voice that makes my blood run cold.

“Hello, John.”

I freeze. Footsteps come up behind me, stopping just over a meter away, and I can’t bring myself to look. The warehouse swims in front of my eyes, the concrete and pillars being replaced by Sherlock standing on the edge of the rooftop at Bart’s. I can hear the emotion thick in his voice, see his coat billowing behind him, blood blossoming across the pavement… I blink, trying to clear my vision, but it doesn’t stop my mind from playing, on repeat:

_Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John. **Goodbye-.**_

I force myself to turn around slowly and there he is. I can’t bring myself to look at his face (It wouldn’t have been the first time I had pictured [read: hallucinated] him standing in front of me and I wasn’t keen on the idea of it happening again), so I take in the rest of him first. Well-worn, designer shoes. Perfectly pressed trousers. Long coat. Arms bent behind his back, standing in his version of parade rest. When I do take in his face, I am struck by how much hasn’t changed. Same pale skin. Same ridiculous cheekbones. Same smart mouth. Same dark curls. Same eyes.

The same eyes that could never decide on a color. The same eyes that glanced at clients and made deductions. The same eyes that stared, lifeless, on the pavement outside of Bart’s while I tried to find his pulse, tried to find hope that I hadn’t just stood there and watched him die, that I hadn’t failed at protecting him. The same eyes that now held equal parts joy and guilt, washed over with a shadow of something darker-.

But that couldn’t be right because anyone who could put someone who obviously cared for them, someone they called a _friend,_ through something like the kind of hell I had gone through over the two years since I had buried him, couldn’t possibly feel things like that. Emotions were beneath _machines._

I took a step closer to him, and he smiled.

“It’s good to see you, John. I-.”

He didn’t get the rest of his sentence out before my right fist collided with his jaw. He stumbled but I caught him by the collar to better hold him in place while my left fist made contact with the other side of his face. I took his coat in both of my hands and slammed him up against the nearest pillar so hard his breath was knocked out of him.

“Two years, Sherlock. Two. Years. You made me stand and watch- _Keep your eyes fixed on me,_ remember?- while you jumped off a fucking roof. I buried you, Sherlock. You fucking bastard. I stood at your grave and wept and you weren’t even there-.”

“I was.”

“What?”

“I was there. I heard you. One more miracle, right? _Don’t be dead._ Well, John… Not dead. Just as you requested, though it was hardly a miracle. Slight of hand. A magic trick.”

I pushed away from him so I wouldn’t hit him again. “You told me, then, when you called me.”

“Yes.”

“I had hoped… Jesus, Sherlock. Two years. Why?”

“Moriarty. He gave me a choice: kill myself or his snipers would start their killing spree. I thought we could play the game, capture him and make him talk. Use his own arrogance against him. The gun he put in his mouth changed that, so we had to use one of our back up plans.”

“Fake your death.”

“The snipers wouldn’t make their shots if they saw me jump. That was their orders. Fake my death, save a couple of lives, and use the fallout to slip away and start to dismantle the rest of Moriarty’s web.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock? Take me with you? Something!”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I simply couldn’t.”

“Was it Mycroft’s idea?”

“None of this was Mycroft’s idea, so please don’t drag him into his.”

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “I know you’re hiding something, Sherlock, but I’ll let it slide for now. I’m more interested in why you came back.”

“Moriarty. He’s back.”

“But you said-.”

“I know, John, that’s the problem. I know what I saw. It’s like Baskerville all over again, not being able to trust _my own mind-._ ” He stopped, took a deep breath. “But we have footage of him arriving in Heathrow two days ago. And, yes, we’re sure it’s him.”

“Right. So Moriarty’s back. You haven’t explained why you’ve returned.”

“I just said, Moriarty-.”

“To me, Sherlock. Why did you come to me? The last time we dealt with Moriarty, you took off on your own. You’ve just told me that you spent the last two years taking down his operation- alone, from the look on your brother’s face. You have always made it clear, right from day when, that you do not need me, so why now?”

“I was wrong.”

Those were the words that should have made me feel better, and acknowledgement of his mistakes, but it only made the anger flow freer than before. It was only with the last of my self-control that my fist hit the pillar next to his head instead of his face again. It gave me the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

“You were wrong about a lot of things, Sherlock. I trusted you with my life, and you betrayed me. I blamed myself, you know. Told myself that if I had said something different, not left you alone, been smart enough to see the trap Moriarty was setting for you… For two years, I blamed myself and now, just when I’m starting to get my life back together, you come back and expect everything to be okay?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, John. I didn’t think you would be this affected.”

“You’re right, Sherlock, you didn’t think. You never do, not unless it’s a bloody murder for you to solve!” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to ignore the lingering smell of gunpowder and cigarette smoke that clung to his coat, and pushed away from him. “What do you have on Moriarty?”

“While I was… away, the highest priority target I was meant to take down was Moriarty’s right hand man- a sniper by the name of Moran. I came close several times, but he always eluded me- or, in one very memorable instance, got his claws in me first.” I watched as he rubbed his right arm, almost subconsciously, and found myself wondering for the first time about what had happened to him. “Moran dropped off all radar six months ago, and we now believe that was to help facilitate Moriarty’s return to London. We don’t know why he returned, either. His web has been thoroughly taken apart, and all the channels we usually keep watch on haven’t mentioned anything about his return or even anything about an up and coming crime ring. All is quiet.”

“So you have nothing but names.”

“We know he’s here, and we know about Moran. We know Moriarty is unpredictable, clever, and incredibly dangerous and that his pet isn’t likely to be much different. We know we need to stop them before bodies  
start piling up again.” He paused for a moment and didn’t look away when I met his eyes. “And I know I need your help to take him out for good. Please, John.”

“I will help you, Sherlock, but only because I want that bastard properly dead this time.”

“Fantastic. Now-.”

“No, Sherlock, I need some space for a day or two. You can text me if you get a break in the case, but I will come to you when _I_ am ready. Understand.”

He nods, and I turn to walk away. “I was wondering, John, if I could-. I mean, would you mind if-? This shouldn’t be so hard. I would like to move back into Baker St.”

“You’ll have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about that.”

“But don’t you-?”

“Do you really think I could have stayed there? Alone?”

“Mycroft’s been paying the rent.”

“It’s not the money, Sherlock.”

“Then what was wrong with Baker Street?”

I open and close my mouth a time or two before I’m able to make the words work the way I want them too.

“Fuck you,” comes out instead.

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me as I walk away from him. The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard, and I hardly acknowledge Mycroft’s offer of a ride back to my apartment. We’re halfway there when I change the destination.

“Oh, John. I thought you were cancelling,” Mary says when she opens the door.

“Sorry, Mary. I just… I could use some company tonight, is all.”

“What happened?”

“It’s Sherlock.”

“Oh, John. Missing him again?”

“He’s back.”

Perhaps if I had been a bit cleverer or if Sherlock Holmes hadn’t just tossed my world around again or Mary wasn’t so damn beautiful, I would have noticed the glint in her eyes, the way her expression hardened, how her shoulders tensed…

Instead, I went inside and let her make me a cup of tea.


	2. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. I am not from England, and I don't have a beta-reader/Brit-picker. I'm apologizing in advance.  
> 2\. Since I'm not from England, I can't accurately gauge the appropriate building choice, so the Wallace building is completely made up.  
> 3\. I may still be harboring some ill feelings toward Sally Donovan.  
> 4\. The thing about the number of stitches mentioned is what I gathered from a variety of sources on Google, but I still can't be sure of their accuracy.  
> 5\. You can find me on tumblr at xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com :)
> 
> Enjoy!

I woke up in Mary’s bed alone, not an unusual occurrence as of late. She had left a note on the table telling me she was called into work and that I should help myself to coffee and breakfast if I wanted it. I poured a cup from the half a pot she left for me and sat down to watch the news. In the middle of a harmless story about renovations on an old building, the breaking news banner flashed across the screen.

“We have just received news that there has been an explosion at the Wallace building in Central London. First responders are already on the scene assisting with the aftermath. It is unclear how many people have been injured or killed.”

No sooner did I think Moriarty, did my phone chirp with a text.

**I think he’s made his first move. Are you available? –SH**

**Where should I meet you? –JW**

My flat is only a few blocks away from Mary’s. I have the cabbie idle outside while I ran up, changed, and grabbed my gun. The familiar weight of it tucked into the waist band of my jeans felt better than I remembered.

_Could be dangerous._

God, I hoped so.

**********

The taxi got me within five blocks of the explosion site, and I managed to walk the rest of the way. Sherlock stood next to Lestrade, just inside the police tape. It made my chest ache to see him standing there as though he had never left. 

I ducked under the police tape with only minimal resistance from the officer standing guard. 

“Hello, Greg. Sherlock,” I say, with a nod to each of the men. 

“Good to see you, John. I’ve missed your face at crime scenes. How’s the domestic bliss suiting you?”

“Domestic bliss?” Sherlock asks.

“John here’s got a girlfriend. Been with her for a few months now, yeah? Stopped consulting on my cases shortly after they met. What’s her name again?”

“Mary. Her name’s Mary.”

I couldn’t quite figure out why my face burned and my stomach felt queasy at the thought of talking about Mary around Sherlock. 

“You consulted on cases?”

“You would have been impressed, Sherlock,” Greg says. “He wasn’t as quick as you, no, but almost as good. Caught us a serial rapist, two killers, and helped bring down a smuggling ring among other things.”

“That is impressive. Very good, John.”

I tried to tamp down on the warm glow that his compliment gave me and managed only a small smile instead of a full blown grin. “Ta. I had a pretty good teacher.”

He smiled back at me, and I felt a different sort of warm glow that, in connection with my trepidation over discussing my girlfriend with him around, made a few thoughts circle around in my head that I hadn’t considered in over two years. 

I shook my head to clear it. “Now, fill me in.”

“We’re waiting for bomb disposal to give us the all clear. The building was mostly empty, but the 20 people who were in there… Well, they didn’t make it.” Greg says.

“Jesus…”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Once we get samples and can analyze the type of explosive and method of construction, we’ll know more about what happened,” Sherlock says. 

“Are we sure it’s Moriarty?” I ask.

Sherlock holds out his phone to me. On the screen is a single text message from a number I don’t recognize.

**Welcome home, Sherlock. –JM**

“It corresponds to the exact time the bomb was detonated. I had the number traced, even tried calling it, but it was a prepaid mobile that has since been disposed of.”

“So, almost definitely him.”

“Yes.”

Sally Donovan chooses that moment to run up to us. “They said the coast is clear, if you wanted to-. Oh. You’re both here? Really? Nothing’s changed, then?”

“Sally,” Greg warns.

“No, I was just curious as to why, even after the freak comes back from the dead, John here still comes running when he calls.”

It’s funny how coming to the defense of a friend is something that never really goes away.

“And I was just wondering why, after you helped push him off the damn roof with your lies, you were allowed to keep your job.”

“John.” It’s Sherlock issuing the warning that time.

“No,” Sally says. “Come on, John, tell me what you really think.”

I take a step closer to her. “I think that you are the youngest of several children, but that you weren’t treated special because of it. No. It was your older siblings who were bright, athletic, successful… You tried so hard to make dear old mum and da as proud of you as they were of them, but you always fell short. When you found Greg, he became a sort of father figure to you, but there was Sherlock, always stealing the scene, solving the cases, and you were so jealous of him that you handed over your false accusations, your half-assed evidence to dear old Greg in the hopes that you would become his new favorite. I think you try to put a wedge between us, telling me that I’m no better than his bloody dog, because you don’t understand how a person you call a _freak_ can have a loyal, trustworthy friend while you’re going home, alone, to eat takeout by the telly for the third- no, fourth- time this week. I think you are tenacious, that you might have even learned your lesson, and that you could be brilliant if you could just get the fuck over your obsession with being better than everyone at everything and focus on your own talents. You want to know what I really think? I think you’re _sad_ , Sargent Donovan, something to be pitied until you can pick yourself up and move on. Now, we have 20 people dead, a homicidal psychopath back in London, and no fucking idea what his next move it. You said the scene was clear. Can we get to it then?”

She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and turned away. “This way.”

Greg gives me a look before starting after her with Sherlock and I close behind them.

“Loyal and trustworthy friend?” Sherlock asks.

“Did you doubt that?”

“The friend bit, yeah. You did punch me in the face. Twice.”

“You deserved it.”

“Twice!”

“One for each year you were gone. Only fair. I’m allowed to be pissed off at you.”

“I didn’t think you’d come today.”

“I didn’t think you’d cave and text me so soon.”

“I had intended to give you time, but-,” he waves his arm to take in the destruction around us. “He forced my hand.” He’s pouting the same way he did when I would throw his experiments away. “I don’t even know how he found out I was here. I’ve only been in London since yesterday morning.”

“Same way that you knew he was here?”

“Private jet, closed off air strip. He walked through Heathrow and stared at every camera he passed by.”

“Wanted to get your attention. Did he know you were alive?”

“I’m starting to think so. It makes no sense! Why would he let me take down his web if he knew I was alive?”

I pushed back the irrational jealousy that even _Moriarty_ knew that Sherlock was alive before I did. “Perhaps it was a recent development? Something he didn’t know about at first?”

“Perhaps.”

The air around us turned choking until one of the bomb technicians waiting there passed us masks that helped ease the discomfort.

“What’s that smell?” Sally asks.

“Nitric acid, among other things,” Sherlock says.

“Common ingredient in IEDs.”

“Quite right.”

“This was a sophisticated version, though. The person who made it has some experience.”

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ve seen a wide array of IEDs in my time in the Middle East. Most people make it so the blast is one directional, so they stand in the doorway and blow everything up inside or something. Inexperience also leads to these kind of mistakes. These ones, however, had a 360 degree blast radius, inflicting maximum damage in all directions.”

“These ones?” Greg asks. “You think there was more than one?”

I point out the two spaces where the bombs sat and the resulting marks on the ground that surround them, almost like black start bursts.

“Witnesses only heard one blast.”

“Simultaneous detonation, a two-for-one deal. Again, a sign of sophistication and experience.”

“And how would you know?” Sally asks.

“I was a soldier.”

“You were a doctor.”

“He had bad days,” Sherlock said with a smile (he, of course, refused his own mask). “He’s also completely right. There’s no way this was the work of an amateur. Perhaps Moran?”

“You said he was a sniper,” I reply.

“That’s his primary function. We believe he could have been special ops, probably for the Americans.”

“And special ops requires a whole bunch of interesting skills.”

“Correct.”

“So,” I say. “Moran. Do you know anything else about him?”

“No. I don’t even know what he looks like. He managed to avoid me at every turn. Even when he captured me, I never dealt with him directly. Didn’t want to get his hands dirty.”

Something about his tone made me look a little closer at him. He was thinner and paler than before, his usually perfectly tailored suit hung off of him slightly. The bruises on his face from where I hit him were faint (I must have pulled my blows…), especially in contrast to the dark circles around his eyes. His normally graceful gait was off, like he was still recovering from an injury and trying to not let it show. He caught me watching him, and the concern must have been obvious because he quirked an eyebrow at me. It took a few moments before the connection between my observations and sentiment were made.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Bollocks,” is my reply.

He shrugged before looking at Greg. “Well, I think this is about all I can get from here. John’s right about the placement and about the person who made them. If you can get me the security footage and send the samples over to the lab at Bart’s for me to have a look at that would be great.”

“Sure thing,” Greg says before going off to make that happen. 

Sherlock takes one more look around before walking back toward me. “Are you going to come with me to the lab or do you have prior commitments?”

“First, you’re going to let me have a look at whatever injury you’re still healing from that you don’t want anyone to know about.”

“It’s nothing, John. I took care of it myself.”

“And since when have you been a good judge of things like that? There was a reason you wanted a doctor around.”

He sighed. “Fine. Perhaps a second opinion wouldn’t hurt. Where?”

“I have all my supplies at my flat.”

“Very well. Let’s go catch a taxi.”

We spend the ride in a mostly companionable silence before pulling up to the building I live in. 

“Back to the efficiency flats?”

“Easier to take care of on my own.”

“But you aren’t alone. There’s Mary.”

“We’ve only been together for four months, I’ve only known her six.”

“You only knew me for a day.”

“You were always the exception, Sherlock,” I say as I turn the key in the lock. It’s a sparse place, almost no decoration except for the painting of the skull that hung in the living room of 221 B. “You can take that back with you, if you’d like,” I say when I notice Sherlock looking at it.

“No… That’s alright.”

I nod. “Have a seat on the bed and let me get my supplies.”

I disappear in to the bathroom and pull out my medical kit before scrubbing my hands clean. I take a look at myself in the mirror, note the dark circles, the stubble that I’ve let go for two days too many, the fact that I need a haircut, but overall, I didn’t look half bad for a man who’s best friend had come back from the dead. I detour to the kitchen on my way back to him to get a glass of water for him as well. When I get back into the main room, Sherlock is sitting on my bed in his pants and a t-shirt that he must have had on underneath his button up. I’m so shocked that I nearly drop my medical kit, saving it only by pretending to set it on my desk. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps I should have mentioned it was on my thigh…”

“It’s alright. I’m a doctor, Sherlock. You’re not the first half-naked man I’ve seen.”

I don’t mention that I’ve seen plenty of men completely naked and that not all of them were fellow soldiers sharing the barracks, nor were they patients. This train of thought it quickly derailed when I note the bandage wrapped around his left thigh.

“So, what happened?” I ask as I get out the antiseptic and fresh bandages before deciding I should just bring the entire kit over to him.

“A bullet. Didn’t actually go in, just tore some skin.”

I dropped to my knees in front of him- _keep it professional, Doctor Watson_ , I thought- and noted the blood that had seeped out slightly through the bandage before unraveling it from around his thigh and being met with a 15 cm long gash marring the skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Not as bad-? Are you the fucking doctor here? Because I’m pretty sure this needs stitches. It’s, what? Three days old? Maybe four…”

“Four…”

“Did you go to the hospital?”

“Couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I was finishing up a data retrieval mission for Mycroft, one of my last assignments before I was able to come home. I was shot while making my escape. I managed to get it cleaned and wrapped before taking the information to Mycroft. Then I was being debriefed. Then I slept for about 14 hours. Then I was on a plane back to London because Moriarty was back… No time.”

“Why don’t we head over to the A&E? They can-.”

“I’d prefer if you’d do it.”

“I don’t have anything to help with the pain besides a bit of numbing gel that won’t actually do shit considering I can’t put it that close to an open wound.”

“I’d still rather you do it.”

I sighed. “Very well. Lay down on your right side, head on the pillows, and bend your legs slightly. Yup, just like that.” I lay out everything I’ll need next to me. “This is going to hurt.”

“That’s quite alright.”

I pull on gloves, disinfect the area around the wound (trying incredibly hard to not pay attention to the fact that I need to push his pants further up his legs in order to do so), and get to work. It takes 15 stitches, one per centimeter as I was taught, and I only hear one pained noise from Sherlock the entire time. I wipe the area down before asking him to move to sitting on the edge of the bed so I can re-bandage his leg.

“Here are two ibuprofen, to help with the inflammation. I know they won’t help you with the pain all that much, but it’s the best I’ve got.”

He takes them from me along with the glass of water, drains the entire glass, and sets it on the nightstand. 

“Thank you, John.”

“I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.” I reply as I fiddle with getting everything tucked back into my kit the right way.

He places his hand on mine, stilling it. “I meant for everything.”

I look up and meet his eyes. There’s a flash of something there, something I hadn’t seen in a very long time. Not since those post-case moments, right before the adrenaline crash hits, when the bad guys have been caught and all that’s left is takeout and tea. 

If it wasn’t for the knock on the door, I’m not sure what I would have done.


	3. Let's (Actually) Have Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first two weeks of class completely kicked my ass, so I apologize about this chapter taking me so long to get up. I will also admit that I had a bit of a problem getting this chapter to work the way I wanted it to, and I'm still not 100% happy with it. Please comment and let me know what you think. I am always open to honest opinions. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Also, find me at xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com. I love talking to new people! :)

“I should get that,” I said as I stood up.

“And I should probably put my trousers back on. I’ll just pop into the loo…” he said, gathering up his things and doing just that.

I took a deep breath to steady myself before the second knock came. When I pulled open the door, Mary was waiting.

“Ah, hello there,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Oh… Is this a bad time? I came home and you weren’t there. I tried your cell, but you didn’t answer…”

I pulled out my phone and, sure enough, there were three texts and a missed call from her. “I’m so sorry. I must have gotten caught up in the case-.”

“Case? Are you-? John, don’t tell me you’re working with him again. Don’t tell me that you’ve forgiven him!”

“Mary, calm down-.”

“I take it I’m interrupting something,” came Sherlock’s voice from behind me. 

Mary stormed past me. “You bastard!” 

She used a slap to punctuate that sentence. 

“Mary!”

“Do you have any idea what you put him through? He was still a mess when I met him, and that was just six months ago! I can only imagine how bad it was at first, you utter prat! What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in the way that meant his mind was busy dissecting every ounce of personal information he could gather. I remembered all the times he told me the precise ways my relationships would fail, all the dirty little secrets I could have lived without knowing, all the ruined relationships… I stepped between the two of them.

“Not her, Sherlock,” I said, my voice dropped low. “Please, not her.”

He looked to me, back to her, then back to me again and nodded. “Very well.” He grabs his coat and scarf off the back of the chair and starts pulling them on. 

“Right, Mary, I was going to head over to… to Bart’s with him, help go over some of the evidence in the lab there.”

“I can’t believe you’re helping him! He’s been back for a day, you still can’t even say ‘Bart’s’ without flinching, John, and you’re just running off with him! What could possibly be so important-?”

“Two bombs were detonated in an office building, killing 20 people, and it’s most likely not the last of the attacks,” Sherlock said. “But not to worry, John, I can handle the lab work on my own. Your deductions at the scene were enough for me to go off of, so I’ll build on them.”

“Sherlock-.”

“No, John,” Mary says. “Let him go. He left you alone for two years. You can leave him to his own devices for a while.”

“Mary-.”

“John, I can handle this on my own,” Sherlock said, opening the door.

I grabbed his arm. “I swear to God, Sherlock, if you find anything about where those bastards are or get any leads that could be dangerous and you don’t take me with you, I will kill you myself. You’re not exactly at your best at the moment, and I can’t have you going in unarmed and injured. Understand?”

“I’ll text you when I leave the lab. Will that make you stop trying to mother me?”

“I’m not trying to mother you. I just-. You’ve only just come back. I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

His face softened just the slightest bit. “I know, John. I will text when I leave the lab, even if it is just to head back to Baker St.”

I flinched at the mention of the flat we used to share, partly because of the memories of what it was like after Sherlock had left and partly because of the pang of not going back there with him.

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Mary.”

Then he was gone.

“What are you doing, just letting him back into your life again? I thought you said last night that you were going to give it time-!”

“I was going to, but in case you missed it, there’s 20 dead bodies in the morgue that kind of forced our hands. I couldn’t just sit and do nothing.”

“Do you guys think it’s Moriarty?”

“Yeah. He sent a text to Sherlock just as the bombs went off.”

“Bombs? There was more than one?”

“There were two. IEDs, pretty sophisticated. We think it’s Moriarty’s accomplice…” I sighed. I had wanted to go to the lab, to keep an eye on Sherlock. After having him back, it was almost unsettling for him to be out of sight. Like he might not come back. I finished putting away the med kit as a distraction.

“What were you patching up?”

“A remnant of an info gathering mission he was sent on. He’s going to be alright, I got his leg stitched up and everything. He just really shouldn’t be running around on his own.”

“We had plans for today, John, and after everything-.”

“I know, Mary. I know. So long as he sticks to the lab, he shouldn’t get himself into too much trouble. We were going to do the museum today, right? Let me get my coat…”

*****

I had forgotten what it was like to have Sherlock Holmes in my life. I spent my day with Mary only half paying attention to her as we made our way through the new art exhibit she had wanted to see, distracted by the usual, nagging worries over the disaster that is my best friend. I felt caught, like I was the rope in a game of tug of war. 

I had the sudden, vivid realization that Sherlock Holmes was not the end of my previous relationships in the way I thought he was. It wasn’t his deductions, his comments, his rudeness. It was the fact that I couldn’t keep him the fuck out of my head for long enough to have a proper date. 

And as bad as I felt about it, I was genuinely glad when Mary’s phone chimed and she said that she was being called into work again.

“They’ve been keeping you busier than usual lately,” I said.

“We’ve a lot going on at the moment, with that project my boss has. I never know when he’s going to need an extra set of hands,” she said, huffing out the last bit. “Oh well.”

“Tell him I said he shouldn’t work you so hard.”

“Or what?” she said, smoothing her hands over my lapels.

I wrapped my arms around her waist. “Or I’ll have to give him a piece of my mind. You’re my girlfriend, after all.”

She turned her face so my kiss landed on her cheek instead of her lips. “Well, you’ve got Sherlock to keep you busy while I’m away. I’m sure that’s where you’re going to run off to the second I leave, so there’s no use pretending.”

I sighed. “Mary, this is an important case.”

“And I’m sure the next one will be too. And the one after that.” She pushed away from me. “Never mind, John. Here’s a taxi. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

She kissed my cheek quickly before getting into the cab. I had wanted to argue with her, tell her that I’ll always put her before the cases that come up, before Sherlock…

But there’s a quick flash of heat across my cheeks as I recalled the close proximity, him on my bed, his hand on mine…

I decided to head back to my flat, maybe finish the novel I was working on, instead of bothering Sherlock. He said he could handle everything on his own, after all, and I didn’t want to prove Mary right on this of all things. 

Then my phone dings with a text.

**Angelo’s? –SH**

It takes me less than a second to respond.

**On my way. –JW**

*****

He met me outside of Angelo’s and held the door open to allow me inside first. Angelo greeted us warmly and loudly as always, though he added in a hug for the first time. I expected Sherlock to rebel at the physical contact, perhaps even shove Angelo away, but he surprised me by bringing his arms up- though only for a moment- and hugging the man back.

“I knew it couldn’t be true, my friend. I knew! It’s so good to have you back, and to see the two of you together again. My restaurant hasn’t been the same without you here. Anything you want, gentleman, you know. I’ll bring a candle. And wine!”

He disappeared, and we took our usual window seat. 

“Are you actually going to eat something?” I asked when he picked up the menu.

“I was considering it. I’ve missed Angelo’s.”

“You? Miss a restaurant? I think hell has officially frozen over.”

“Oh, do shut up. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“You should get the gnocchi, then, if you’re really going to eat.”

“You only say that because you want the gnocchi as well as something else and can’t make up your mind so you want to steal some of mine.”

“The other thing I was thinking of was the chicken parmesan…”

He made some sort of non-committal noise and continued to peruse the menu until Angelo arrived back at our table with the candle and a bottle of wine. “Now, this Cabernet Sauvignon is from my special stock, straight from Italy,” he said as he popped the cork and poured a healthy amount into our glasses. “What else can I get for you?”

“The chicken parmesan and the gnocchi,” Sherlock said before I could speak up. 

Angelo smiled at the two of us. “Oh, it is good to have you back. I’ll get your food in right away.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Sherlock, not if you wanted something different,” I said, slightly shell-shocked that he actually took my request to heart.

“You said you wanted both. I like the gnocchi, and the chicken parmesan is passable. Just don’t expect me to share my dessert.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, the mock seriousness making him look up at me and quirk an eyebrow. I took a sip of the wine. “Oh, this actually quite good.”

“Of course it is. Angelo has great taste in wine. Ah, right, you’re more of a beer drinker, occasionally Scotch or brandy, not wine. We should change that. I tried a Beaujolais Nouveau when I was in France that you might like, though it is a much, much lighter red wine than this. If it’s the fuller bodied ones you enjoy, there are several other varieties I can recommend as well.”

“I didn’t know that you knew so much about wine.”

He swirled his glass, taking a deep breath before swallowing a small sip. “Mmm. This is a good one, and you can’t exactly grow up in my type of family and not know wine. It’s important to know what type to serve when, what pairs with what, what’s high class, what’s not…”

“Why not delete it?”

“It might come in handy some time.”

I dreaded asking my next question, but the curiosity was there. “And when, exactly, were you in France?”

He caught the slight hitch in my tone and looked out the window, fidgeting with his glass. “About a year ago. We found one of Moriarty’s bases. It was actually at the winery, they were using it as a front for drug trafficking among other things.”

“What happened?”

He shifted his gaze back to me. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” I said, realizing at the same time I spoke that it was true. I wanted to know what he had done while he was away. There was something different about him, something that wasn’t there before. Two years can change a man. I wanted to know if the Sherlock sitting across from me was the same as the one who left me and, either way, what happened to him while he was gone.

“I posed as a restaurateur, new to that area of France, and looking for a merchant who could supply the wine for my new establishment-.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Of course, John, do keep up. Anyway, the man who ran the actual winery knew very little about the other, illicit activities happening on his property. I found out, in the end, that he was being paid a very large sum of money to continue with business as usual except for this one building on the premises. While he was giving me the tour, I noticed that he avoided what looked like an old but recently renovated barn on the other side of the fields. I asked what was in there, he danced around the subject, and that’s when I knew that was the building I was looking for. We made a deal for me to return the next day, after I had run the figures and seen if I did actually want him to be my supplier, and I went on my way. Of course, I didn’t really leave. Once night fell, I made my way to the barn, found a window that allowed me a view inside, and that’s when I discovered that the rumors of trafficking things besides drugs was true.”

“People?”

He nodded, and the shudder shook my entire body. I was even more grateful for the wine at that point. “There were five guards, a relatively small number. I was able to knock out two of them unseen, but the third caught the attention of the final two… I have a scar between the 4th and 5th ribs on my left side where one of them caught me with a blade, but they were messy and disorganized, obviously not prepared for anyone to encroach on their base. Mycroft’s men arrived a few minutes later and we were able to save the people who were locked up there.”

“That was very brave of you, Sherlock, going in there by yourself. Stupid, but brave.”

“Well, bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” he said and tipped his wine glass to me.

I laughed at the memory of my first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, at Sherlock actually quoting his brother, at the warm feeling that the wine was spreading through my limbs (or, at least, I think it was the wine…).

And once Angelo set the food down in front of us and I got to arguing with Sherlock about how sharing meant things should be equal, I didn’t even notice my phone vibrating with unanswered text messages and one, very exasperated voice mail message.


	4. Ghosts

I should have headed home after seeing Mary off. I should have gone home, had a quiet evening in my flat. I should have said no to Sherlock, no to Angelo's, to the first glass of wine, the second. Definitely should have said no to the third. I should not have let Sherlock drink the other half of that bottle. I should not have indulged in so much food. I should have skipped dessert. 

But I never quite learned how to say no to Sherlock.

The wine, though, that was the worst idea of the evening. Alcohol thinned the blood, after all, and when three men had you backed into an alley way with the intention of beating the shit out of you, it was probably a good idea to be sober all around. 

"Do you have your gun?" Sherlock whispered to me.

"Why would I have my gun?"

"You always carry your gun!"

"I had trouble adjusting to civilian life, you were a fucking disaster, then you were dead! I grew out of the habit."

"Well that was stupid."

"Obviously!" I shouted at him in response as the men advanced.

I dodged to the side, grabbing for a bit of pipe that was shoved half-way under the dumpster next to us, bringing it up to make contact with the face of the man who was coming at me. There was the sickening crunch, the grunt of pain, the thud as he hit the ground...

I had half a second to acknowledge the fact that I had missed the danger, the fighting, the power that came from a well-timed blow, another half a second to accept the fact that this meant I was probably insane, before the men who were attacking Sherlock realized what had happened to their partner. People always assumed it would take less to overwhelm me than it would Sherlock, and I never tired of seeing the slight glimmer of shock that danced across their features when they realized they were wrong. One of them changed tactics and charged at me. I brought he pipe up again, but he caught my arm and brought his free fist into my stomach. 

"This is a gift from your dear friends, Moriarty and Moran," he said, slamming his fist into me again. "They send their love."

I managed to get my arm free from his grip, hitting him with the pipe on the back of his head just enough to distract him while I put some distance between us. Sherlock had apparently had the same idea, retreating a few paces back so he was next to me after hitting his opponent with a punch straight to the nose. 

"And aren't you going to be surprised at the end of all of this, the both of you. The world's only consulting detective- fooled again. And you, Watson-."

"Wotcher, mate. Don't want to give away too much of the surprise."

"Surprise?" I asked, trying to keep their conversation going.

"Oh you'll find out soon enough. God! You've both been so blind. The answers- staring you straight in the face. It's almost pathetic."

"Not even almost. It probably would have been better if you had actually died, Holmes. You could have saved yourself from all the embarrassment and pain that's coming your way."

"You shut your mouth!" I said, taking half a step forward.

"Oh testy. Still protective of your little detective? I wonder what it must be like to share a bed with someone who's so in love with someone else. Perhaps we should ask your girlfriend sometime?"

"You leave Mary out of this!"

"Oh, you're precious!" the man said as they both dissolved into laughter. 

"Come on, mate," the other one said once he has himself under control. "We were told to roughen them up a bit. I don't think we did a good enough job, do you?"

"No, I think you're right. Let's give them a few more bruises to remember us by." 

They came at us again and it dissolved into a fury of blows. I saw the man facing Sherlock land a punch that sends him crashing against the brick wall. When he gets his feet under him again, he seemed slightly off balance. While I was distracted, the man fighting me managed to land another punch. I stumbled back and, just before I lunged at him again, I heard the _snick_ of a folding knife being opened. 

"Oh, that's not fighting fair," I said. 

"Says the man with a pipe."

"Touche."

I knocked his arm with the pipe, but I wasn't fast enough to dodge the blade completely. It tore through my jacket and the shirt underneath it, leaving a pain in its wake that I know means he broke skin. I sucked in a breath and cursed, putting distance between the two of us again. Sherlock managed to slam his opponent's head against the wall making blood gush down the side of his face. 

The man I knocked to the ground groaned loudly, starting to come to.

"Come on, Max," the man I was fighting said. "I think they've had enough."

"We need to get Alex out of here anyway," the man called Max said before he ducks down and pulls the man on the ground up, putting one of his arms around his shoulder and swaying briefly himself. 

"We just had to rough you guys up a bit, anyway, and pass on a message that tomorrow is going to be a very interesting day in London." 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"Just wait and see." I went to follow them out of the alleyway, but Sherlock put a hand on my arm. I flinched away at the contact. "Shit, that hurts. Why aren't we chasing after them?"

"They're low level, they don't really know what's supposed to happen tomorrow. At least, not more than we already do."

"More bombs?"

He nodded, then took a good look at me. "Christ, John. You're bleeding through your coat."

"I'll fix myself up when I get back to my flat."

"Baker Street is closer." 

I froze. "I- I don't-." I cleared my throat. "I don't have my supplies there."

"I've stocked up. Come on. Can you walk the couple of blocks?" He already started walking away before I had the chance to properly explain to him that the idea of going back to Baker Street was terrifying, and I couldn't help but follow. 

The walk was quick and soon I was confronted with the black and brass door that lead into 221. When we stepped into the hall, Mrs. Hudson came out.

"Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you home for a-. Oh. John! It's so good to see you. It's been a while. How are you? How's Mary? Are you okay? You look a little pale..."

"Just a bit of trouble," I said through half clenched teeth. The pain in my arm was steadily worsening, I was starting to feel the other bruises, and being back in Baker Street was making my skin crawl. I could hear echoes of the violin coming from up the stairs, smell the smoke and formaldehyde from Sherlock's experiments, feel the cold, pressing darkness that made up the flat in the week that followed Sherlock's death. That was all I lasted, just a week, before it was too much for me to bear and I found a rent-by-the-week place to stay until I found a different apartment. I had only stopped by occasionally after that, to have tea with Mrs. Hudson, and I never went upstairs. The thought of revisiting that place was a nightmare. 

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson tittered, pulling me out of my thoughts. "You boys and your constant getting into trouble. I'll make some tea and bring it up for you, but just this once and just because it's a bit of a special occasion."

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I can make the tea when we get upstairs. John needs some bandaging up and your show started a minute ago. We'll be just fine on our own," Sherlock said, already guiding me toward the stairs. 

"I'll stop by and see you again, Mrs. Hudson. I promise."

"You best mean that this time, John. I miss having you around."

I gave her my best 'everything is okay and there's no need to worry' smile, then I was walking up the stairs, walking through the door that lead to the parlor of 221B. It was as though nothing had changed. There was the same, vague chemical smell in the air mixed with whatever ridiculously expensive products Sherlock used for his hair and aftershave. There were papers strewn about, a map of London affixed to the wall over the couch with tacks and string and photographs plastered all over it, and even the skull sitting upon the mantlepiece. 

It also felt like home, but I couldn't stand the thought of that so I pushed it as far out of my mind as I could.

"Have a seat in the kitchen. The table's actually cleared for the time being, so there's room. I'll grab the kit..."

I took my jacket off, considered hanging it up but decided it was a loss and draped it on the back of the chair I sat down in. I lifted the front of my jumper so I could have a look at my torso (anything to keep my mind off the fact that being in this flat and knowing that Sherlock was alive and well in the next room was giving me the creeps) and I was unsurprised by the bruising I was faced with there. 

"Do you think there's any internal bleeding?" Sherlock asked from the doorway, startling me a bit. 

"No, I don't think so. It feels like just the normal pain you'd expect after being punched in the stomach a couple of times."

"Your arm is bleeding pretty heavily, though."

I look down at it to see that there are little rivulets of blood snaking down my arm. "Ah, apparently it was deeper than I thought."

"Would you mind rolling your sleeve up?" he asked, pulling the other chair up next to me so he could have a better look at the cut there. "Damn. It's about the same as the one on my leg..."

"How is your leg? You didn't tear your stitches, did you?"

"No, pulled them a bit so the area itches and burns a bit, but I didn't tear any of them."

"Oh, good. I was worried about that during the fight."

"It was a close thing. The bastards seemed to know that was my weak spot, so they kept going for it. I think this might need stitches..."

"Damn. I can just pull my coat back on and head to the A&E instead."

"Or, I can do them for you."

"Sherlock, I don't know how many times I have to tell you that you aren't a doctor before you-."

"I know that, but I watched you do them on my leg and I've done some stitches as part of some of my experiments before. I'm quite good at them."

"Then why didn't you stitch yourself up?"

He shrugged. "Didn't care enough to. Now, do you actually want to get up and get your coat on and go through the hassle of explaining this to the triage nurse or would you rather stay here and let me handle it for you?"

I sighed. "Fine, alright. Just make sure that you clean everything properly, and don't place the stitches too close or too far apart and you need to-."

"John, relax. I may not be an ex-army doctor, but I am fairly good with my hands."

He set out the supplies he needed before pulling on a pair of latex gloves and getting to work. It hurt, but I could tell Sherlock was being careful and doing his best to keep me comfortable. When he was done, I took a look at his work.

"That really isn't too terrible."

"Not too terrible? Please. That's perfect."

"Oh, offended you, did I?"

"Shut up."

I laughed a bit before taking a good look at him. "Are you okay? It looked like you were getting a bit bruised up there for a bit..."

"No lacerations or anything like that, so there's something. Just sore. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll be better once I know what Moriarty's up to. And Moran! What surprise could they have been referencing? How was I blind?"

He moves into the living room, staring at the map on the wall. 

"Would you still like that tea you said you were going to make?" He made what I labeled his 'I'm thinking but I wouldn't be opposed to whatever you're asking' noise, so I stand and put the kettle on, pulling down the mugs and tea bags and opening the fridge cautiously, surprised at finding almost solely food in there, including a small thing of milk. When I turned back around to see if he's made any progress, I was startled to see him leaning against the wall, looking at me intently.

"I dug out an old t-shirt of yours. At least, I think it's yours."

"Thank you." 

He continued to stare at me, even after I took the shirt from him and set it on the table to change into once I set the tea to steep. It's not until after I turn back to the tea that he speaks. "You haven't come back here since you moved out. Not to this flat, at least." I didn't respond since he didn't frame it as a question, and it takes him a moment to speak again. "I think I might actually understand why." 

That makes me turn to question what he means by that, but he's already back in front of the map, fingers steepled against his lips. I just shake my head, take my shirt, and head to the bathroom to change.


	5. Fallibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so it's totally been a month since I updated and I feel like crap for that, but I had the hardest writer's block I've ever encountered. I was just creatively stuck on everything, and considering that I'm a design major, that's just been shitty all around. I am so sorry for that. It seems to have broken for the time being, and I do hope that this chapter makes up for it a bit. There's emotions and things and more stories from Sherlock's time away and did I mention emotions? Let me know what you think! 
> 
> And, as always, you can find me on tumblr at xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com. Stop by and chat any time you want!

I had forgotten what it was like to watch Sherlock work. At crime scenes, he was all manic energy, leaping about and spouting off his deductions to all those he deemed worthy, but at home? He stood stock still for 5… 10… 15 minutes at a time, his tea in one hand- empty or gone cold depending on his mood- while his other rested on his hip or brushed against his lips or, if he was frustrated, ran through his hair disrupting the orderly chaos of his curls. Occasionally, he would wave his hand in front of him as though clearing away information that no longer held any use for him. I couldn’t help but think back on past cases we had been on, the countless nights spent just like we were, the fire blazing in the grate, the hand-me-down chair that seemed perfectly suited to me, a cup of tea in hand or a whisky if it had been a particularly bad day and I thought I might actually able to sleep by the end of it.

I’m not sure exactly when I fell asleep, but I knew that I must have because I was suddenly running down the halls of Roland Kerr College, through the heavy wooden doors at the end, and pulling a trigger, but instead of the cabbie taking the bullet, it was Sherlock, and instead of being in the classroom, it was the pavement outside of St. Bart’s and Sherlock was falling and instead of my screams, I could only hear Moriarty laughing and the sickening thud of flesh hitting pavement…

Then the soft notes from a violin cut through the noise and pulled me slowly back into reality. The fire had died down, but the blanket draped over me fought away any chill. Sherlock stood by the window, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, with his violin brought up to his chin. His body swayed back and forth as the notes of an unfamiliar song rose and fell. I wondered if it was one that he had composed himself, and the sheet music on the stand next to him confirmed my suspicions. It was rare that he let me watch him properly play. I would be around while he was composing, but that was only bits and pieces interrupted by him putting the notes to paper. There was that one lovely Christmas we had together when we invited everyone over and he behaved himself enough to actually play for us all.

But that sort of playing? Where it’s just him and no interruptions or gimmicks or fake smiles for politeness’ sake? That was a rare treat indeed. I decided to ignore the desire to stretch (sleeping in a chair wasn’t all that comfortable for someone of my age) or to ask him if he had figured out anything new about the case in favor of enjoying the moment because any second now he would stop or screech his bow across the strings out of frustration.

To my complete surprise, he played the song through to what must have been its conclusion before he finally turned around.

“That was fantastic, Sherlock. It’s one of your own pieces, isn’t it?”

“Good observation.”

“Easy observation. You only ever use the stand for your music if it’s something you wrote yourself. You have every other song you play memorized. Eventually, even the sheet music for your own stuff disappears as you commit that to memory too.”

“You’ve learned well.”

“Good teacher, all that,” I say before I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The blanket, for one, but mainly for waking me up like that.”

“I didn’t do it for you-.”

“Sure, sure,” I say as I stand and stretch. “Did you have any luck?” The look on his face gives me all the answers that I need. “Shit. I’ll go make us some more tea, then we can have another look.”

When I come back into the living room, a cup of tea in each hand and a pack of chocolate biscuits tucked into my back pocket, he has moved from the window back to staring at the wall. 

“How about you walk me through it?” I prompt. 

He takes a sip of his tea but still doesn’t speak, staying silent long enough that I begin to worry. When the words came, they knock the wind out of me.

“When I was away, part of my mission took me to Germany. It was a little town, about an hour northwest of Munich. Everyone in the town knew that about Moriarty’s men. They didn’t really know who they were working for or what the details of their operation were, but they knew enough and had enough proof that they could have done something about it. The risk of telling, they said, outweighed even their consciences. There was this woman, though, whose husband had been murdered by someone under Moriarty’s command. Sabine. That was her name. She owned the inn that I was staying in under the disguise of a writer who was looking for some fresh air out in the country while I worked. She found my gun while she was cleaning my room—against my wishes, of course—and put it together that I couldn’t be with the others if I was staying at her inn instead of the compound they had. She gave me information that was instrumental in taking them down, but only after I found her dead in the kitchen, her throat slit open with her own knife. They knew she had spoken to someone, but they didn’t know that she hadn’t yet given me anything I didn’t already know, not nearly enough for me to get them. They made a mistake, though. One of them dropped a keycard on the way out. I was able to get in and dismantle their entire operation using it.”

I had leaned in close to him while he was speaking, just until our shoulders touched. I wasn’t sure if it was for moral support for him or to help keep my knees under me. Either way, I expected him to pull away, put distance between us, but he kept up the steady pressure as though he had to lean on me as well. That scared me almost as much as the realization of what his words meant for our current situation.

“You think more people are going to have to die before you find them.”

For a moment, I saw his masks drop and an unfathomable depth of sadness take its place in his eyes. “No, John,” he said, sighing. “I _know_ more people are going to die. He didn’t give us anything to go on. We can assume that it’s going to be bombs again based on prior knowledge, but as far as location goes? London. Just… London, all 1,572 square kilometers of it.”

The silence stretched between us as the weight of his words settled down on us, heavy and suffocating. I was reminded of the last time Moriarty had pulled his stunt with the bombs, the look on Sherlock’s face when the old woman died, like he finally realized that it wasn’t a game, the look on his face when he saw me next to the pool, semtex vest and all. 

“I’ll call Lestrade,” I said, fishing out my phone to do just that and coming face to face with the angry text messages and voicemail from Mary.

“Ah. Mary tried to get a hold of you?”

“Yeah… Shit, and it’s too late to get back to her. Or too early, depending.” I just shook my head, vowed to make it up to her _later_ , and cleared them from the screen.

“I can call Lestrade if you’d prefer to read them and listen to your voicemail which is also probably from her.”

“No, this is more important.”

I swear I saw a corner of his lip twitch at my words, but then Lestrade was answering his phone.

“John? Do you have any bloody idea what time it is? Sherlock hasn’t gone and offed himself again, has he?”

I flinched at this words. “No, noth-nothing like that, but it is bad news.” 

“Moriarty?”

“Yeah. Apparently tomorrow—I mean, today—is going to be ‘a very interesting day’ in London, or at least that’s what a couple of his lackeys said to us.”

“Wait, you found some of his men?”

“More like they found us.”

“Are you guys okay? Shit, are _they_ okay? I’m not going to find some bodies in the river from you two, am I?”

“No, not yet. It wasn’t a fair match. They were armed, we weren’t. They outnumbered us… It doesn’t matter. We’re both fine. They delivered their message and took off.”

“And that was it? Just that it’s going to be an interesting day in London?”

“And that we, as in Sherlock and I, are missing something that’s right in front of us. They’re taunting us.”

“Bastards. Alright. I’ll head in to the yard and start putting the word out that people should be on alert today. What else can I do?”

“Wait,” Sherlock says, loud enough for Lestrade to hear.

“That’s what I was afraid of. Hopefully I won’t end up seeing the two of you today.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to be the case. Keep us in the loop, yeah?”

“Will do. Thanks for letting me know.”

He disconnected and I rubbed a hand across my face before plopping back into my chair. Sherlock was still staring at the wall. I could see the muscles in his back tensed, poised for action. He didn’t handle waiting well, I knew that much, and I was starting to get the feeling that the entire day was going to be hell. That feeling didn’t get much better when I realized that I was supposed to have a shift at the clinic that day.

“Don’t you have to get some sleep so you can manage a day at work?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t you think this might be more important?”

“There’s nothing to do but wait at this point. You may as well go take care of some people until something happens.”

“I am taking care of someone.”

“What?”

“I know how you get when a case like this comes up. I’m making sure you don’t run off and do something stupid.”

He scoffed at me. “Please, John, like I would ever-.”

“May I remind you of the last time you sent me away? You know, when you _jumped off a roof?_ ”

“That was necessary.”

“You know, I can’t quite seem to find any fucks to give about the necessity of it, but I’m trying to work really hard to get past that. In the meantime, you’re just going to have to deal with having me around.”

He was even better at those poignant (read: pointless) silences than I remembered. His words, when he did eventually speak, were so quiet I almost missed them. 

“I never minded having you around, John.”

“Then why did you send me away, Sherlock? Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“I… miscalculated.”

“ _Miscalculated?_ Sherlock, our friendship is not some equation for you to try and solve!”

“I know, John, I know, which is precisely why I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late. I didn’t account for all the variables.”

“ _Variables-?_ ”

“Sentiment. I didn’t account for sentiment.” He dropped his head, turning away from me again to face the wall. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you around until you weren’t there.”


	6. A Very Interesting Day in London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me a while (Gods, that line is becoming very familiar to me). I'm happy with the way this chapter turned out, though, so there's that. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr at xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com :)

It took a full minute before my brain kicked back online, but during that time, Sherlock had still been speaking.

“Now that that’s out of the way, we can focus on the real issues at hand- how to catch Moriarty, take down Moran, and make this the last day anyone gets blown up because of them. But how? Aside from a few snide remarks from their errand boys and what we already had, there’s nothing for us to go on. What have I _missed?”_

I debated for just a moment on whether I should push the topic with him. Sentiment wasn’t something Sherlock discussed outside of motivations for murders and ‘chemical defects,’ so it was a rare opportunity for me to figure out just what was going on in that head of his, but the rational part of me recognized that I wouldn’t get anywhere with him now that he had changed the subject onto admittedly more important topics.

Another time, perhaps, when there was a good wine and no Moriarty to worry about.

“Did you keep files of what you found while you were away? Any details on Moran?”

I saw some of the tension release itself from his shoulders; avoiding sentiment was a good move, then. “I didn’t make any physical files, but Mycroft did during our debriefing sessions.”

“Would he let us see them?”

“If you ask, he might.” I raised a brow. “He’s… upset with me. You might get a better response.”

I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Mycroft, despite my skepticism. My phone dinged a minute later with a response.

**They will be there within the hour. – MH**

“Told you so,” Sherlock said.

“Why’s he upset with you?”

“He… didn’t approve of how I told you I wasn’t dead. He didn’t approve of me keeping you in the dark at all, really. Said I was wasting a resource.”

“I never thought I’d see the day where I agreed with Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps hell has frozen over…”

“Yes, well, moving right along. When the files get here, you’ll read them out loud to me. I’ll fill in the gaps as we go. I doubt he included all of the pertinent information.”

“I’m sure there are things you left out too.”

He flinched a little, probably unnoticeable if I hadn’t been paying more attention to him than usual. “I couldn’t have him knowing _everything._ He didn’t deserve it. Stop getting off topic! We’ll go through, fill in the blanks, and see if there’s anything I missed.”

“And until the files get here?” 

“Well… it’s almost 7. Perhaps you should return those text messages? She’s usually up early for work, right?”

“Right… yeah… I should call her back.”

“There’s coffee in the cabinet. It’s going to be a long day, so you may want to get yourself a cup.”

“Do you want one?”

He hummed- not that I expected anything else- and I stepped into the kitchen to start making the coffee while I called Mary, only to be met with her voicemail.

_“Hello, you’ve reached Mary. If this is work related, text me. If not, please leave a message.”_

“Um, hey Mary. It’s just me. I’m sorry I missed your texts and your call last night. I… well, I got caught up in a little scuffle and lost track of time. I didn’t forget about our dinner reservations for tonight, 7:30. I’ll pick you up at a quarter to; that should give us enough time to get there. Again, I’m sorry about last night, and I _will_ see you tonight.”

I nearly drop the mugs I brought down from the cabinet when I hear Sherlock’s voice behind me. “You didn’t say you loved her.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what people in relationships do? Constantly try and reassure one another of your romantic attraction? Profess your undying love? Quote poetry?”

That was so _Sherlock_ , that I would have laughed if there wasn’t something about the phrase ‘undying love’ that reminded me a little too much of how I felt those first few weeks (months… alright, the entire fucking time if I was honest) after Sherlock ‘died,’ and I wasn’t entirely sure how to handle that realization.

“It doesn’t always have to be like that.”

“Please, John. I’ve seen the way you fawned over your previous conquests-.”

I slammed the sugar canister on the counter before turning around to face him.

“She’s not a _conquest_ , Sherlock! She’s my- my girlfriend. She has been there for me for months, while I was still trying to deal with the fact that you were _dead_ and fucking _buried_.”

For a second, he looked like I hit him again. “John, I-.” The trill of his phone cut him off, and he turned away from me as he answered it. “What?” 

His entire demeanor shifted. The tension worked its way back into his shoulders, his hand raked through his hair, he even _sighed._ I was already clearing up the coffee things by the time he said, “We’ll be right there.” 

I pulled on my coat and followed him out the door and into a taxi. He looked out the window, keeping quiet until we were almost at our destination.

“The Double Tree Hilton hotel in Westminster. It was hosting some sort of technological conference this weekend. Sunday- today, rather- was the final day of it.”

I nodded. The sound of sirens were slowly growing louder, and the driver dropped us as close as he could. We walked the last three blocks before we met Lestrade. There was still smoke rising from the pile of rubble that had once been the hotel.

“More powerful explosives this time,” I said.

“Just more in general. Witnesses report a series of blasts in short succession.”

“Several devices set up on several floors. Quicker demolition,” Sherlock says.

We stood there in silence, watching the emergency medical teams and firefighters digging through the rubble. 

“How many people were in there?” Sherlock asked.

“They were completely booked.”

“Shit,” I breathed.

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied. “Can you guys get anything from the scene?”

“Nothing we don’t already know.” 

“Where’s the other team?” a larger-than-life man shouted behind us. “There’s still bodies in there!”

Lestrade winced. “Christ, it’s going to be a long day. If there’s nothing you can get from here, why don’t you see if there’s anything else you can do? At the lab or something?”

I slipped my jacket off and handed it to Sherlock. “Why don’t you take a look at those files? You don’t really need me for this part of it. You can fill in the gaps and I can give a second opinion later.”

“What are you going to be doing?”

“You heard the man. There’s still bodies in there. That, at least, is something I can help with.”

“Why?”  
“I can’t just stand here and watch.”

“But your arm-.”

“I’m a big boy, Sherlock. I’ll be fine.” I waved him off and turned to hunt down the man who had bellowed out the call for the other search team. 

“Sorry, can’t talk to anyone right now.”

“I wanted to know if there was anything I can help with here.”

“We don’t need civilians getting involved in this. Just get behind police lines, alright?”

I sighed; it had been a while since I had to pull rank in any form. “I’m Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I’ve seen my fair share of this sort of thing, and I’d like to lend a hand.”

The look on his face changed immediately. “Of course! I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful day, as you can see. Well, days, really, with what happened yesterday and all.”

“I know. I’m helping the Yard with the investigation.”

“Wait, are you _that_ John Watson? The one who works- worked- well, no, I suppose works is right again, isn’t it? With that bloke, the detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, sir. He’s right over there actually, talking with DI Lestrade.” 

“Good. I’m a huge fan of your blog, by the way, and the name’s Owen. Owen Molloy. I’m the Commissioner for this lot, the fire brigade.”

We shake hands properly. “Good to meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Same here. You said you wanted to help?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you can start by not calling me sir. It’s Owen. I’ve got the calluses to prove that I worked for a living, alright? And right now, it’s just digging.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Take these gloves, then. Start anywhere.”

It felt good to get in, get my hands dirty, and to know I was helping with a job that no one really wanted to do. My arm ached where I was pulling at Sherlock’s stitches, but that was to be expected. Something that was relatively startling, however, was the site of pale, violinists hands tucked into work gloves, sleeves of a designer shirt rolled up to the elbows, the dust and dirt working their way onto shoes and trousers that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“What are you doing?”

“I think the fact that I’m wearing work gloves and mirroring your actions should be enough clues for even you to figure it out.”

“But… why?”

“I can’t just stand there and watch,” he said, parroting my words back at me.

“But, there’s files and everything-.”

“I really want a second pair of eyes when I go over them, even the first time. I don’t want to chase down or expand on anything that isn’t actually relevant.”

“Alright.”

We worked in silence for a few minutes, digging through brick and bits of cheap hotel furniture, before Sherlock spoke again. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“You’re thinking.”

“I do that on occasion, yeah.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Besides the hundreds of bodies we’re currently searching for?” He nodded, even though it was rhetorical. “I’m honestly thinking that this is the first time I’ve seen you do hard labor like this. I mean, I’ve seen you dig through trash and things like that, but it’s always for evidence or something. We both know everything the evidence here is going to tell us, so there’s nothing you can gain from anything you find here, so you’re doing it just to- just to help. It’s… interesting.”

“I’m not heartless, John.” I bit back several retorts that I knew I would eventually regret saying, but of course he chose that moment to see everything I didn’t say. “I did that to save your life. I think that is the exact opposite of heartless, John.”

“And keeping it a secret? What about-?” I cut myself off, clenching my fists before channeling the energy into moving a particularly big piece of rubble. 

“Yes, John, even that.”

I ignore him, turning back to the task in front of me. We worked in uncomfortable silence for a little bit until I consciously made the effort to let it go. It could wait until after this case was finished. I brokered a peace by asking him what type of stone the building had been made from which sent him on to a slight tangent about the various types of stone used to build in London until we came across our first body. 

The silence after that was mutual and heavy, not vindictive or petty, and we worked that way until 3:30 when Owen came to tell us to head home. We had found a few more bodies, worked until we were both sweating and exhausted and covered in more dirt than I cared to think about. It took us ages to find a taxi that would actually take us home.

It wasn’t until we were at 221B that I realized I had thought of it as home (bit not good) and that I had a date I was supposed to be preparing for that evening (extremely not good).

“Damn. I need to change. And shower.”

“You left quite a bit of your clothing here, you know. You can always just wear some of that. You’re the same size as you were then.”

“I have a date with Mary to get ready for as well.”

“If you shower and change here, the most you’ll have to do is pop into your apartment quickly to drop off and/or grab a few things. Possibly change depending on the restaurant and what clothes you have here. It’s half four now. You can leave at 6:00 and have plenty of time to get ready. There’s the files to look at.”

“Fine, okay. But I’m leaving at 6:00 on the dot, okay?”

“Of course.”

Between my shower, an impromptu visit from Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, I didn’t notice the time until it was already 6:15. 

“Shit! I have to go.”

“But the files-.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, but I can’t keep fucking up with her. I want-.” To stay here with you, I thought, but chose something much less damning. “I want to stay and help, and I know this is more important, but I can’t. I’ll text you later or tomorrow. And you, text me if you come up with anything or if you need me. Don’t do anything stupid!” 

I’m out the door and into a taxi just a moment later, already lost in thoughts about how fucking stupid it was to be pining after my best friend when I had a lovely girlfriend and I was still so raw after everything that happened. It had only been three days, _three_ days, and I was just as addicted to his mania as I was before he died. But, God help me, I didn’t mind being hooked. I wanted it. I wanted him, and I had no idea what to do about that. I was fucked.

It wasn’t until we were two blocks away from my apartment and the whole thing went up in flames that I realized just how fucked I was.


	7. Precipice

Everything I owned was in that flat.

The laptop I used to write up cases. My clothes, save for the ones at Baker Street. The dinner I had planned to make the following evening. My security. My independence. My safe haven. My prison. My excuses. My bottle of brandy that I only dipped into when I missed the sound of the violin so badly my chest ached. 

My gun.

I stood across the street, next to Lestrade. The cup of coffee he gave to me was burning my hand through the styrofoam, but I was too numb to really care. Aside from the rhythm of Sherlock’s feet against the pavement as he paced and the shouts of the men working to quench the flames, all was quiet. After all, what was there to say when you were watching your home burn?

“All of the devices have been different,” Sherlock said. He may have been muttering the entire time, I’m still not sure. “Double blasts, perfectly timed, compromised but did not decimate structural integrity. Sophisticated. Several devices, several floors, complete annihilation-. Both explosive. This, though, incendiary devices. Several of them, sure, but why this? Burning, not exploding. Slower destruction. What does it mean?”

“Are we sure this is Moriarty?” Lestrade asked.

The look Sherlock gave him was almost enough to kill.

“John! John!” it took me a moment to recognize the voice of the woman from just beyond the police tape as Mary’s.

“Let her through,” Lestrade told the man who was blocking her way. 

She ran up and threw her arms around my neck, shaking me and making me spill some of my coffee on to my hand.

“Shit-.” It was the first thing I had said in what felt like ages.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Were you in there when they went off?”

Something should have clicked there, but I couldn’t drag the connections together. “I’m fine, Mary.”

“When I saw what happened, I thought-. You always take your time getting ready for when we go out. I thought you were in there. You didn’t answer your phone. You haven’t been answering your phone at all lately and I was so worried about you-.” She cut herself off when she say Sherlock. “You _bastard_.”

I saw the slap coming before she even raised her hand and managed to catch her before she made contact. “Mary, don’t.”

“John-? What are you doing? It’s all his fault! He dragged you into this mess-.”

“He’s the reason I’m alive right now, Mary.”

“He’s the reason you’re fighting for your life in the first place!”

“No, Mary-.”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted me. “She’s right. I should have never gotten you involved in this.”

“Don’t you start!” I said, even as Mary all but shouted, “Even he agrees with me!”

Sherlock just shook his head. “I have files to look at. If you need anything, well, you know.” He waved his hand and turned away.

“Sherlock, wait-.” I took a step toward him before Mary grabbed my arm and pulled me back to her.

“Don’t chase after him.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Stay.” Her voice sounded almost broken with an undercurrent of something sharp and steel edged. “Just stay. Stay with me.”

“Mary, please.”

“This shouldn’t be a difficult choice, John!”

She was right, and suddenly it wasn’t. “There are two, mass-murdering psychopaths on the loose, Mary. I’m not staying here and letting him deal with that all on his own.”

“He’s been doing it on his own for longer than you’ve been around!”

“And now that I’m here, it doesn’t have to be like that! I can’t just abandon him.”

“He has no problem abandoning you!” she yelled, gesturing behind me. 

I turned to look and Sherlock was gone. “Fuck.”

“Don’t go, John. Please, don’t go.”

“Mary-.”

“If you go, that’s it, John. This ends.”

I hated ultimatums. I hated how everyone always lost. I hated having to choose, but she said it herself. It wasn’t a difficult decision. I just did what I always did.

“I’m sorry, Mary.” I took off at a run in the direction of Sherlock, but I couldn’t find him.

“He got into a taxi,” comes Donovan’s voice. “I think he said Baker Street.”

“Thank you, Sally.” 

“And, John?” I pause, mid turn away from her. “I’m sorry.”

I smile, just a little, at her. “Me too.” Then I’m off.

I catch the first taxi I see straight to Baker Street, but the moment Mrs. Hudson opens the door, I know he’s not here. I pace on the sidewalk outside and send off two texts in short order. 

**Where are you? –JW**

**Damn it, Sherlock. Where the fuck are you? Answer me. –JW**

I caved in and called him, meeting the voice mail too quickly in the way that meant he hit the ignore button. 

“Listen to me, Sherlock. You can’t just fucking do this to me. Not now. There are bombers on the loose. You remember what happened the last time we faced this shit? You can’t just fuck off and not be where you say you’re going to be!” I slammed the end call button with more force than was probably necessary before sending off one more text.

**I will find you. –JW**

My phone beeped with the text alert and for one stupid moment, I thought Sherlock had actually responded. Instead, it was a message from Mycroft.

**Rooftop. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. –MH**

I felt something similar to ice slip through my veins and lock up my legs, but I fought through the panic, replacing it with anger, and hailed a cab with a precision that Sherlock himself would admire if I didn’t end up beating him to a bloody fucking pulp. When I did eventually make it to the rooftop, I had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

The smell of cigarette smoke finally hits me and that, more than anything else, seems to push my anger into the realm of supernovae. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Having a cigarette. Thinking.”

“You said you’d be looking at files.”

“No, I said I had files to look at, not that I would be doing that now.”

“You have your phone. You could have answered me.”

“You’re not my handler, John.”

“I wouldn’t have to act like it if you showed a little fucking common sense!” He scoffed. “Honestly, Sherlock. You can’t just fuck off on your own.”

“Why not?”

“What if they came after you? There wouldn’t be anyone who had your back!”

“So what? Mary wasn’t wrong, John. If it wasn’t for me-.”

“I’d still be holed up in my old flat with a limp and a gun that looked more and more promising as the days went on!”

“You’d be safe!”

“I’d be broken!”

“I did a damn fine job at adding to the damage!” he shouted back, finally tossing his cigarette. 

“Sherlock-.” I reached for him, but he stepped away, thankfully away from the edge of the roof.

“Don’t. Just… don’t.” He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I know that you want me to apologize to you. I know that you want me to say that I regret my actions, that I’d change things if I could, that I wouldn’t have kept you in the dark, but I can’t. I’m not sorry. I would do it all again in a heartbeat, John, because it kept you safe. I’ve been back for 3 days, and you’ve already had a mental breakdown, gotten jumped in an alleyway, and now…”

He gestured vaguely off into the vicinity of the now incinerated flat, and I finally saw everything for what it is. Guilt. Pain. Regret. It was Sherlock showing emotions, much like he had the previous night, but more raw. The little ball of tension and hurt that nestled in my chest unfurled and deflated. 

“I’m not mad at you, Sherlock. None of this is your fault.” He rolled his eyes. “No, no, Sherlock, this is not your fault. You said it could be dangerous and here I am. Don’t think, not for one fucking second, that I regret meeting you. I’m not angry anymore. I’m not entirely sure if I was ever really angry. Hurt. Betrayal. Jealousy. All that, sure, but anger? No. Whatever anger there was got blocked out by the happiness I felt at having you back. I can hang on to that. My life is, after all, significantly less empty with you in it.”

Yes, it was Sherlock without the masks he constantly wore. The glimmer of hope, just there in the slightly bewildered quirk of his lips, in the tension easing its way out of his shoulders.

“John…”

I shrugged. It still wasn’t time to push this- whatever this was. “How about we get the fuck off this rooftop, order some Chinese food, and take a look at those files now, hm?”

The tension snapped back into him immediately, and he looked away. “You should get back to Mary.” It was so quiet I almost missed it.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” his voice was quiet, his eyes still avoiding mine.

Something shifted, and I knew that whatever my next words were, they were going to be important. I reached out, lightly placing my hand on his upper arm. The contact finally made him look at me. “I came to _you_ , idiot. Now,” I tugged on his coat, pulling him to the door, “Files?”

He nodded and allowed me to lead the way off the roof, down to the first floor, and out to a taxi. We picked up the Chinese food and walked the rest of the way to the flat. It’s not until I’m sitting down, doling out the food, that reality settles in upon me.

I’m homeless.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said, cutting off that disastrous train of thought before it could really get going. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

Neither of us commented on the implications of that. There’s still too much- bombers and Mary and 2 missing years and so much left unspoken- in the way, but that’s alright. When he stole the egg roll off my plate, this warm glow in my stomach tells me that somehow things are going to be okay. 

I should be surprised when the front door gets kicked open. I should be surprised to hear three- no, four- sets of boots pounding up the steps. I should be surprised when Sherlock pulls a gun out from between the couch cushions and pushes it into my palm. I should be surprised when our door gets thrown open. I should be surprised at how easy it feels to let off two shots in quick succession because _of course_ Sherlock kept the gun loaded and _of course_ the safety was off because Sherlock was a fucking genius.

But, as it turned out, the only things that really surprised me were the sound of a vaguely familiar female voice issuing a command and the fact that people still used tranquilizer darts.


	8. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's only going to be two chapters, plus an epilogue after this. And that warning for graphic depictions of violence? This is the chapter that I had in mind when I put that there. It's not horrible, but... Well, thought you should all be warned. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr. xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com
> 
> Enjoy! :)

I couldn’t remember the last time my head hurt so badly. It was worse than any hangover, any head injury… It was hell, pulsing in time to my heartbeat. When I tried to open my eyes, I almost threw up. There was a voice, and though it sounded like it was coming from under water, it was unmistakable. 

“Oh, looks like they’re coming to.” Moriarty said, his voice worse than nails on a chalkboard. “I really thought Sherlock would be up faster than this, given his history. Perhaps he really has been clean?”

Even through the haze (which was blissfully starting to lift), I was happy to hear that. It meant Sherlock was there (not good) but that he was alive (fantastic). The second emotion that crossed my mind was fear. This was not the first time I had been at Moriarty’s mercy. I still had nightmares about the evening spent by the pool, waking up with the smell of chlorine filling my nose even though it was impossible. I didn’t _feel_ like I was wearing a vest loaded with Semtex, but whatever drugs were in my system could easily be clouding my judgment. The third emotion that registered was anger. Moriarty had taken my home and Sherlock (not sure if there was really a distinction there) once already. I couldn’t- wouldn’t- let it happen again.

The cold water thrown in my face washed away some of my bravado, but the anger surged back to life.

“Son of a bitch,” I cursed, sputtering. My eyes were finally open, blinking in the sudden light of a- warehouse? An _abandoned_ warehouse? I almost laughed. Criminals could be so predictable, right down to the two lackeys Moriarty had with him. Granted, I couldn’t see behind me, but I didn’t hear anything in that direction.

“Now, now, Johnny. Language.” 

“Fuck you.”

There was a second splash as a man gave Sherlock the same treatment with the water. He came to, sputtering and cursing as well, sitting across from me. There was a bruise on his cheek, his arms and legs were bound like mine, and I could tell from the tightness around his eyes that his head felt at least as bad as mine. I took this all in during the five seconds it took Moriarty to cross to where I was sitting and slap me. For a man of his stature, he packed some force. 

“I said watch. Your. Language.” He stepped away so he could have Sherlock in his line of sight as well. “Boys, boys, boys. It is so good to see you two together. Remember the last time we were together? Just the three of us? I think it was at Bart’s, right? Oh! But that was mainly just me and Sherlock. Johnny here was watching from the cheap seats.”

“If you’re going to kill us, can you please just get on with it?” Sherlock said. I was equal parts in awe of that beautiful mouth of his and pissed off at his lack of self-preservation. 

“Now, now, Sherlock. None of that. I want to play with you first. See we have a lot to catch up on, me and you. The last I heard, you were dead.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“You would have known that if you had merely observed. Isn’t that supposed to be your thing?”

“I miscalculated. Didn’t think you were one to settle for cheap tricks like that.”

The man standing next to Sherlock, the same one who threw the water on him, brought his fist down and into Sherlock’s stomach, knocking the air out of him.

“Stop that!” I shouted. “Leave him alone.”

“Oh, don’t you see? I owe him. I owed him a fall, but he didn’t take it. Not the way he was supposed to. This is the next best option: make him suffer. But how to do that, hm? Properly do that? That’s where you come in, Johnny. I hurt him, making you upset, and since your emotional well-being is all he really cares about, your distress channels back into him and **BAM** ,” I flinched at the volume he reached. “Positive feedback loop. That should at least keep us busy until Moran gets back. Should be soon. And then, Johnny boy… Just you wait. Until then though,” he waved his hand and the two men went to work on Sherlock.

I didn’t think it was actually possible for me to hate Moriarty any more than I already did, but for every hit his lackeys landed on Sherlock, a new method of murder popped into my head.

A fist to the stomach. A bullet to the head.

A punch to the face. Use my bare hands.

When Sherlock screamed, though, I saw red. I wanted to take a knife, slit Moriarty’s throat, and present his vocal cords to Sherlock so we could set them on the mantle above the fireplace.

I was just starting to run through a very detailed mental image of dismantling Moriarty bit by bit when the doors were kicked in. It was obvious that they were Mycroft’s men- I had seen enough forces like this to know the difference between ally and enemy. The relief I felt would have overwhelmed me if it wasn’t for the anger still boiling away steadily under my skin. 

It didn’t dim when Moriarty and his men were on their knees, cuffs holding their wrists behind their back. It flared when Sherlock was untied and didn’t protest at being put onto a stretcher. Mycroft himself untied me, and the second I was free, I had the gun from one of his agents in my hand and pressed against Moriarty’s forehead. 

It occurred to me that it had been too simple to get a gun off of an MI6 officer, but when no one fought to get it away from me, I nearly kissed Mycroft.

“Oh, Johnny Boy, you wouldn’t kill me. Not here in a room full of MI6 agents.”

Figuring out something before it occurred to Moriarty was a novel experience. I wondered, vaguely, if it was what Sherlock felt like on a regular basis. 

“Oh, Jim, are you really that stupid?” Anger flared in his expression. “Perhaps you should _observe_.”

He looked around (as much as he could with the muzzle of a gun against his forehead). “Not MI6, then,” he said, voice flat. 

“Right on the money there. Now,” I cocked the gun.

“Wait, wait. You can’t do this. You won’t do this. You’re too good of a man, a doctor. You don’t hurt people. You certainly don’t kill them-.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve killed for someone I love.”

He had a second for the shock and distress to register on his face before I pulled the trigger. I turned to hand the gun to Mycroft or one of his men, but Mycroft waved me off. 

“To replace the one you lost. I think you more than deserve it for all that you do for my brother,” he said, looking off over my shoulder. 

I turned to follow his gaze and saw Sherlock, sitting up in the stretcher, just 15 meters away from us. Plenty close to have heard what I said. His eyes were wide, mouth parted slightly, and he seemed as close to in shock as I had ever seen him. My heart dropped down to somewhere near my shoes.

I turned back to Mycroft. “Well.”

“Perhaps you should go with him?”

“I’m not entirely sure that would be a good idea.”

“Contrary to what my brother often says, you aren’t an idiot, John. Don’t act like one.”

It took me a moment for his words to sink in before I nodded, tucked the gun into the back of my trousers, and turned to walk to Sherlock’s side.

“Oh, and John?”

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“Be patient with him.”

“How long have I known him?”

“Touché,” he says, and I look back at him. For a moment, I thought I saw a trace of a smile on his face. I was pretty confident I had lost my mind.

But I had a very injured detective to force through the proper procedure of the A&E and couldn’t dwell on that. Not to mention another homicidal madman on the loose. It was a relief to find, when I approached the stretcher, the man in charge of the little group immediately started filling me in.

“Doctor Watson, there doesn’t appear to be any signs of internal bleeding, but we can’t know for sure unless we get him to the A&E-.”

“And he’s fighting with you about that, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course he is,” I turned to Sherlock. “You’re going to the A&E, you’re going to let them run whatever tests they need to run on you, and you’re not going to fight them about it.”

“I- But-.”

“No. Arguing. Now, lay back down.”

“But, John-.”

“You have a head injury, and I said no arguing.”

He finally did, and I walked alongside the stretcher out to the ambulance that Mycroft had waiting- another private company of course. Halfway there, Sherlock’s hand closed over mine. I didn’t let go of it until after the nurse informed me I would not be allowed into the room while he had a CT scan done. 

I sat in the waiting room, head in my hands, and contemplated how the fuck I ended up there.


	9. Betrayal is the Only Truth That Sticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter than what I have been writing, and I probably could have broken it up into two, but I was on a roll. There will be one more chapter after this, more of an epilogue really, where there will be smut smut smutty smut as a reward for sticking with this cluster fuck from the beginning. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you'd like to chat. xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com
> 
> x Destiny

Even in sleep, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be peaceful. Despite whatever drugs they administered to help knock him out, he still tossed and turned, sprawling out over as much of the hospital bed as he could. It was refreshing to see that, the defiance he carried even in sleep, because it was something that helped take my mind off the bruises that littered his skin. Against the white of the bed, his skin was paler than usual, betraying the pain he was still in. I kept telling myself that Moriarty was dead. I repeated it like a mantra to help keep me just this side of insanity, but it was only so effective. Moran was still alive, after all. 

For now, at least.

I found myself counting his breaths again, the anger rising like bile in my throat as I mentally catalogued his bruises for the hundredth time, and forced myself to turn away. I watched the sun rise up over London instead, clutching a cup of long-cold coffee, plotting murder. 

That’s how Lestrade found me.

He knocked lightly on the door, startling me nonetheless from my thoughts, and motioned for me to come out into the hall. Before speaking, he swapped the cup in my hand with one filled with fresh coffee. 

“You look like shit, John.”

“Better than Sherlock, at least.”

“Christ, even bruised up like he is, I think he beats us both in the looks department.”

“You know, you’re probably right on that one.”

“There you are,” he says, patting my back. “I was told you could use some company right now.”

“Who filled you in?”

“Mycroft. I would have been here earlier except he was briefing me on what went down at the warehouse.”

“Ah.” 

“So he’s really dead then?”

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

“Good.” 

I relaxed slightly, pleased he chose not to give me a lecture on, you know, due process and how murdering people isn’t actually a good thing. 

“How’s Sherlock?”

“Fine. His doctor says that his ribs are bruised up, but there’s no internal damage. He’ll be sore for a while, but nothing he won’t be able to handle. He’s had worse.” 

“And you?”

“I’m fine. They didn’t actually do anything to me.”

“They made you watch while they tortured him.” I winced at his words. “I would call that something, John.”

I counted floor tiles instead of responding.

He sighed. “John, we haven’t really had time to sit down and talk about the whole Sherlock-not-being-dead thing, and everything that’s happened in the past couple of days… It can’t be easy for you.”

“I can’t imagine it’s easy for any of us, you included.”

“I’m not in love with the bloke the way you are, though.”

I sighed, running my hands through my hair. It was longer than I was used to keeping it, and I found myself wondering if it was bad form to be thinking about haircuts when someone you cared about-.

Alright, when someone you loved, was holed up in a hospital bed.

“John?”

I turn back to Greg. “It’s the biggest cluster fuck I’ve ever had to deal with. I’m pissed off, but not really. I’m depressed, but not really. I’m ecstatic, but so fucking out of sorts that I don’t even really know how to deal with anything. I splattered Moriarty’s brain across the floor of that warehouse without a thought to spare for anyone but Sherlock. He’s infuriating and makes me so angry and when I look at him it’s like looking at the sun but how-?” I cut myself off, biting my tongue to stop any more words from forcing their way out.

Greg of course chose that moment to be perceptive.

“How could someone like Sherlock see anything in someone like you? That what you were going to say?” He shook his head when I stayed silent. “John, it might have something to do with the fact that you have killed two people that I know of to protect him and _still_ make him tea in the morning despite the heads and other body parts in the fridge. More likely, it’s the fact that even though you find him brilliant, you don’t hesitate to bring him back down to size. You treat him like a human being when so many people treat him like he’s nothing more than a machine. You care about him, more than I think anyone else has. You’re also a pretty handsome bloke and he’s not blind…”

That surprised a laugh out of me. “Damn it, Greg. I just…” I blew out a breath. “How do you even have a relationship with a man like Sherlock Holmes? I’ll just fuck everything up with him and lose my best friend on top of everything else and-.”

“John, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you were in a relationship with him from the moment you moved into Baker Street.”

Before I can respond, I hear the horrendous noise of a heart monitor flat lining. I’m on my feet and in Sherlock’s room before I even register the fact that I’m moving. As I stood in the door way, looking into the room to see Sherlock still asleep, wrapped up in all of his blankets, still perfectly alive while the crash cart zoomed down the hallway at my back, I realized I was totally and utterly lost to that mad bastard. 

Greg’s hand on my shoulder made me jump. “And that, John, is why everything is going to work out between the two of you. Now, I’m heading back to the station. I just wanted to check in on you two and make sure you were really alright. Keep him resting.”

“Keep us filled in, yeah? Even though Moriarty’s out of the picture, there’s still Moran and the rest of the operation to worry about.”

“I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

The rest of the day was almost worryingly quiet. Sherlock slept more than I think he’s ever slept in a single go before, while I managed to go through what felt like the entirety of the hospital’s coffee supply. When he finally woke, he managed to harass three of the nurses to the point where they gave him his discharge papers just so they could be rid of him. I wish I could have said I expected better from him, but he lasted longer under hospital care than I thought he was capable of.

The close quarters of the taxi that we share on our way back to Baker Street threatened to give me a panic attack until his hand nudged against mine on the seat, moving it so he could weave his fingers with mine while continuing to talk.

“It sounded like there was a woman with them at the house, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Hm?” I said, still caught in the idea that we were actually holding hands. “Oh, right. I thought I heard a woman’s voice as well. Do you think…?”

He nodded. “It’s a possibility I didn’t account for. Moriarty trusting a woman to do his bidding… It seems unlikely, but then again, he was ‘so changeable.’ I don’t have any visuals, no information, no military records… All the information I have on Moran is what I’ve gathered from vague sources, and nothing in any of it mentions a gender identity. I’ll have to go back over the files.”

“Well, now that we have something to go on, that might make things easier.”

“It would be better if we had Moriarty to question…”

“If you’re expecting an apology for that, don’t hold your breath.”

“No, no. Just stating facts. It was… illuminating,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a squeeze of my hand. 

We sat in comfortable silence until we reached Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson opened the door before we could even find our keys.

“Oh, good, you boys are back. I was so worried when I found the flat all mussed up. I did just as you told me, Sherlock, and called your brother. He seemed so worried for you. Did everything work out alright?”

“For the most part and for now, yes,” Sherlock said. He touched my shoulder. “I’m going to head right up. Mrs. Hudson obviously has something she wants to say to you without me around, so I’ll give her the space to do so.” He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, as though his ribs weren’t bruised half way to hell. 

I just shook my head as I watched him go before turning back to Mrs. Hudson. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Now, John… I know that it’s really none of my business what’s going on in your relationships, but if you plan on hurting my Sherlock by dragging Mary around while you’re with him, I’m not so sure I can condone that.”

“Mrs. Hudson-?”

“No, hear me out. She’s up there right now, all in a fuss because she hasn’t heard from you, and after everything-.”

“She’s up there? Right now?” 

“Yes. She said that she was dropping some things off, that you had given her a key-.”

I put my hand over Mrs. Hudson’s mouth to stop her from speaking and, very quietly, whispered to her. “Mrs. Hudson, I didn’t invite Mary over. I didn’t give her a key. I think… I think I’ve been a royal idiot. Please, without making a fuss, go in and call Mycroft again. Do you understand?” She nodded, her eyes wide as saucers, and for the millionth time I promised to whatever gods there may or may not be that one day I would make all of this up to her. Send her on a vacation somewhere safe, somewhere warm, somewhere without the hell Sherlock and I put her through. 

As she turned, I drew my gun and started up the stairs, skipping the one that always creaked, all while I felt as though my entire world was sliding out of focus. So many little things clicked into place- the insane hours she worked, the tension when I spoke of Sherlock, the anger, the being in the right place at the right time, the way she just came out of nowhere, how she knew about the multiple devices used to level my apartment building, the fact that “Moran” dropped off the radar 6 months ago, right when Mary stumbled into my life…

I felt drugged, cold down to my core, and the only thought that kept me going was that Sherlock was alone in all of this when I had sworn I would never leave him alone again. When I stepped into the living room, it was like something out of my worst nightmare.

She stood with her gun leveled at Sherlock. Her arm was steady, her aim true, and even though she was looking at me instead of him, I knew there was no way she would miss if she pulled the trigger. 

_This is it_ , I thought, raising my own weapon at her. _This is how it all ends._

“Hello, John. So happy you could join us.”

“Hello, Mary. Or should I say, Moran?”

“Took you long enough to figure that one out, didn’t it? God, Sherlock, what do you _see_ in him? You could have had everything with us, you know. Everything. Jim wanted you as our play mate in the beginning, you see. With his creativity, your intellect, and my ferocity, we could have had everything, Sherlock. Everything. He might even have let you keep you little pet.” 

I caught Sherlock’s eye while she was facing him, and I saw his eyes flick to the left, toward the kitchen, and when I glanced there, I saw a device on the kitchen table. It was clearly a bomb but there was no timer in sight. I noticed his hand moving, tapping rhythmically against his thigh.

Taptap. _Pause._ Taptap. _Pause._ Taptap.

Thudthud. Thudthud. Thudthud. 

A heartbeat.

It slid into place then. The sophistication of the bombs she used had increased with each attack. The one she had planned to use for us was the most sophisticated one I had ever seen, in or out of the army. It also limited my choices drastically.

“But all that’s gone now, done and gone, because he had to go and kill him.”

“Then I think this is between you and I, don’t you? How about pointing that gun in a different direction?”

She laughed as her eyes flashed back to me, a harsh and bitter sound that was so opposite what I was used to hearing from her, it took all my willpower not to flinch. “Oh, please, John. Did you really think that would work?”

“No, not particularly, but it gave me a moment to narrow down my options.”

I adjusted, pulled the trigger. The bullet tore clean through the wrist of the arm that was holding her gun, embedding itself into the fireplace. The shot she managed to get off from her own gun before it fell to the floor missed Sherlock’s head by a narrower margin than I would like to think about ever again. She screamed in a combination of pain and fury before lunging toward the kitchen table where her device sat. I tackled her, getting her to the ground while she raged against me. I wrapped one hand around her useless and bloody wrist, using the distraction of the pain it caused to flip her over so she was on her stomach with the barrel of my gun pressed against the back of her head. 

What seemed like hours later, Mycroft’s men were there, taking her from my custody.

“Why didn’t you kill her as well, John?” Mycroft asked while she was led from the apartment, finally quiet. “Sentiment?”

“The bomb was wired to go off when she either set it off manually or when her heart stopped. You’ll find a sensor under her shirt.”

He nodded. “I am sorry about this, John. We had the house guarded. We’re not sure how she slipped past us.” His phone chimed with a text. “Ah. I take that back. She took down one of my agents. Of course.” He rubbed his forehead, sighed. 

“Why don’t you head out? The team you sent just finished diffusing that bomb she set up- surprisingly easy to take apart given her skill- and there’s nothing else that needed taking care of here,” I said. I saw the classic Holmes brother ‘I’m about to tell you why you’re wrong’ look cross his face and intercepted it before he could speak. “I know what it’s like to lose someone under my command. Go, make your calls, give your condolences to the family, and rest. Everything is taken care of here.”

“For once, brother mine, you should listen to someone’s advice,” Sherlock said, returning to our conversation after supervising the bomb squad’s work. “He is a doctor, after all.”

“If you’re sure,” Mycroft replied before pulling himself up to his full height and addressing everyone in the flat. “Take that device with you to the lab, analyze the components and see if there’s anything else we can glean from it. Everyone, clear out.” 

He followed his men out of the flat without even a glance back at us, his team replaced by a fretful Mrs. Hudson fluttering about the kitchen making tea while I scrubbed the blood off the floor for what felt like the millionth time. The only difference this time was that Sherlock helped as well. 

Once as much of it was gone as we could manage and Mrs. Hudson’s tea and tears were through, Sherlock and I sat on the couch, watching the fire dance lazily in the hearth. 

“It’s over,” I said.

“I think it might just be beginning,” he replied. When I turned to look at him so I could ask what he meant by that, his lips met mine, erasing all thoughts but one.

_Thank God._


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The final chapter. Our final chapter...
> 
> Sorry, sorry. That was terrible and I regret it already. Anyway, this really is it. The epilogue. This chapter is wall to wall sexy times with a smattering of fluff that feels vaguely like eating a spoon full of sugar. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Up next, I am planning on completing the next part in my Vices and Virtues series. For those of you who may have been following it, I hit a major snag that lead to me deleting everything I had written for Part 2 and binning it. A while back, I received a message on tumblr from someone asking after it, and I said once I finished this, I would start in on it. Well, this is finished, so I'm going to get back to that. Keep an eye out because I plan on having a chapter up within the next week or two.
> 
> Other than that, you can always find me on tumblr. xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com. I love hearing from people, so feel free to hit me up on there anytime you want to chat about Sherlock or fanfiction or fandoms or life in general. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me through this story, and check out my other work if you haven't already.
> 
> \- Destiny

I had spent so much time imagining what it would be like to kiss Sherlock Holmes, but I somehow failed to factor in his passion. Stupid, really, given the intensity with which he approached all his ventures. I’m not sure why I thought this would be any different. He kissed with the same attention that he paid to crime scenes, making surface observations (my slightly more chapped lower lip, the stubble along my jaw, the hair at the nape of my neck) before taking in the details (the goose bumps he raised along my neck as he played with my hair, the rapid beat of my pulse and how it jumped when he gently, ever so gently, took my lip between his teeth).

I felt like I was losing myself. So stupid to be lost to a simple kiss like that. Stupid to be caught off guard, to underestimate. It was precisely what I had been afraid of: me, swept off by his brilliance while he remained the same, unfazed and put together and totally in control of himself.

When I pulled away to catch my breath, his hand was still resting on the back of my neck, the slight pressure there pulling me just enough so our foreheads rested together. I kept my eyes closed, half enjoying the feeling of being close to him, of breathing the same air, half afraid that I wouldn’t see what I was hoping to see on his face when I opened them.

“Oh,” he said, less than a breath, really, breaking the silence, and I finally opened my eyes.

Whatever breath I caught was immediately knocked out of me again. His eyes were all pupil and blown wide. A flush crept along his cheek bones, stained his lips red, and crawled along his neck where his pulse hammered away. None of that, absolutely none of it, meant as much to me as the slight tremor I felt in his hands. 

“Oh, indeed,” I said and captured his mouth again. 

There was more heat this time, both of us more prepared. I found my footing and gave him the same exploration he gave me. I moved my hand to the back of his head, weaving my fingers into his curls and exerting just enough pressure without pulling to keep his mouth pressed against mine. My other hand came up and cupped along his jaw. His hand that had been on my neck dropped down to fist itself in my jumper, and he let his lips part to grant me entrance.

“Bedroom?” he asked between kisses.

“God, yes. Yours or mine?”

“Yours.”

It took us more time than it should have to make it up the stairs due the constant stopping and kissing and taking off shoes. I took advantage of the steps to get one up on Sherlock, using the height so that I could thoroughly kiss him. 

There are reasons I have an international reputation.

Once we were inside my room, Sherlock pushed me back against the closed door. His fingers- those clever fingers that made an appearance in more than one of my fantasies- went to work undoing the buttons on my shirt. He _growled_ when he saw the t-shirt I had underneath it, and I couldn’t entirely suppress the giggle that flowed up because of it. At his insulted look, I just kissed him and shoved at him gently, pushing him toward the bed until his knees made contact and he fell backwards onto it. He sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, and I situated myself- still standing- between them while I worked at undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Even though there was only the light from the streetlamps outside, I could see the bruises shadowing his skin. As gently as I could, I peeled the shirt from his shoulders, tossed it to the ground.

“Lay back, up on the pillows,” I whispered. It occurred to me, as he made himself comfortable in my bed, that I had him, finally had him, and that there was nothing holding me back from making those fantasies a reality.

I stripped off my shirt before climbing into the bed as well, an act met with a hum of hungry approval from Sherlock. He braced himself up on one arm to kiss me, using the other to trace down the column of my throat, over my chest, around and down my back. I couldn’t help the groan that tore itself from my throat when he ran his nails gently up my spine until he was carding his fingers through my hair. I pushed him back down onto the bed so he was lying flat on his back and set about exploring. Kisses trailed along his jaw. A warm breath over his ear before my lips make contact with his neck. A gentle bite left at the junction of neck and shoulder that had his entire body arching up into mine. I trailed the kisses lower, gently passing over bruise and scar, biting back questions that I knew would make my chest ache for all that time I was not there to protect him. I made quick work of his belt and fly, kneeling up so that I could peel his trousers and pants off. 

Forget bombers and assassins. Forget psychopaths in Westwood suits and street thugs in dark alleys. Forget the experiments on the milk and drugged coffee. 

Sherlock, the long, pale, lean line of him gloriously naked and debauched and stretched out in my bed, was going to be the death of me.

When I kissed him again, it was reverent. My hands trailed lower, carefully avoiding putting too much pressure because of his injuries and relishing in the fact that it meant my touch was teasing him. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I whispered as my hand finally made its way between his legs, caressing his length lightly before my hand wrapped around it. The sound he made dragged a moan from me as well and I kissed him again, deeper this time. His hips moved, meeting the rhythm of my hand in a counter-pace so he thrust up on my downward motion. I stopped kissing him only so I could better hear the soft moans and whines he was making. 

When his hand wrapped around and stilled my own, I was almost certain I did something wrong. 

“Idiot,” he muttered, kissing me again. “Lay down on your back.”

“Sherlock-.”

“Please?”

He returned the examination, kissing and biting his way down my neck and across my torso, but it was so very _Sherlock_. Where I hesitated and danced over his scars and marks, he lingered, mapping and cataloguing as he touched and tasted. It felt like hours before his hands found my belt and removed the rest of my clothing only to resume his exploration. When his mouth his my navel and didn’t stop, I realized a moment too late what he was setting me up for. It took all my willpower not to buck up as his mouth wrapped around my cock, wet and hot and so much better than any fantasy, than any _thing._

“Fuck.” It wasn’t the most articulate of responses, but his hum of approval brought a wordless cry that seemed to fill in everything else I wanted to say. He knew, must have known, when I was getting close because he pulled away just before I reached the brink. 

He kissed me again, and I could feel his cock rubbing against my thigh and pulled him closer, grinding him against me. He sucked in a breath and released it on a moan that went right to my core.

“John…”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” I never thought I would see Sherlock blush, but even in the diminished light, I could see it creep across his skin before he buried his face in my neck. I kissed his temple and ran my fingers through his hair, but still he hesitated. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” he whispered, so quiet that even though he was right by my ear, I almost missed it. 

“You have me, Sherlock. All of me. Anything.”

“Inside of me. I- I want you inside of me.”

I tugged at his hair gently until he raised his head. “There’s lube and condoms in the drawer.”

He fumbled off of me to dig in the drawer of my nightstand and emerged with the necessary items. Instead of him lying down and switching positions with me, he put one leg on either side of my hips, kneeling over me. He went to pour the lube onto his own fingers, but I wanted to be the one to open him up so I eased the tube from his hand. With one hand, I stroked his cock with long, slow pulls. The other, I slid under him.

After a few moments of slow teasing, I pushed one finger in and worked him open gently before adding a second. As he tossed his head back and made a long, deep keening sound, I crooked my fingers _just_ so and rubbed them along his prostate. He jerked up at the sudden sensation and only succeeded into pushing his cock into my fist. As I added a third finger, I watched him catch himself in a loop of trying to escape the intensity of my fingers inside of him and fucking my hand only to thrust back onto my fingers. 

“God, John, please, _please_. I can’t- I need-.”

“Shh,” I said, releasing my grip on his cock and reaching for the condom. I managed to get it open using my teeth and rolled it onto my shaft. I slicked the remaining lubricant from my fingers over myself before helping to guide his hips and then-.

“Oh, _fucking hell_ ,” I breathed out as he slowly, so slowly, sank down onto me. 

His face was a mask of concentration. I could feel him forcing his muscles to relax, to allow my entrance, until he was finally seated fully on me.

“God, you’re inside me. Inside me,” he whispered, voice thick and laced with something akin to awe. He gave a slight roll of his hips that had us both cursing. He repeated the motion again, once more, and settled into a rhythm. My name fell like a hymn from his lips, repeated over and over until it dissolved into gasps. 

I placed my hands on his hips, guiding his motions, helping him into a position that made my cock ghost over his prostate on almost every thrust. As his rhythm started to falter, I tightened my grip and took over, thrusting up and into him. After a few moments, I pulled him down until his chest was pressed against mine, kissing him everywhere my mouth could reach. I moved a hand between us so I could touch him, stroke him, while my pace picked up. 

“John, I’m- I’m close…” He said, sounding wrecked. “So close…”

“God, yes, Sherlock. Let me see you. Let me feel you.” I twisted my hand so that my thumb dragged against the head of his cock and I could feel his muscles clenching around me. “That’s it, Sherlock. Just let go. Come for me.”

He buried his face in my neck again and _whined_ as the first stripes of his release painted my chest. The sound and the feeling of him contracting around me threw me headfirst over the edge and I was gone.

Years later, or so it felt, we seemed to surface together for just long enough to clean ourselves up before falling back into bed (his, this time, since it was closer). 

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’m a disaster.”

“I know,” I replied and brought my lips to his forehead. “I love you anyway.”

He was silent for so long, I thought he may have fallen asleep. “I love you too, John.”

“I know," I said, grinning when he huffed at me. "Now go to sleep.”

Anything else that needed to be said could wait for morning.


End file.
